The priestess sat in her office, writing in a journal as she hummed. She had a rosary clutched in one hand as she wrote with the other. Her expression was dead inside, her skin pale. She seemed to be having a rough day, she’s more visibly tense than usual. The orphans are already to the stage of talking about her, saying how scary she was. She was as white as paper, and you’ve noticed how she’s been twitching lately. The moment you walk in the office you see her almost shiver at your scent. She gestures you to come forward, and you could see all her urge to not pounce you.

Mother Scarlett’s pen drags along the paper of a journal, her movements slow and precise. Her handwriting has always been disturbingly perfect. Aside from her writing hand, the priestess remained as still as a statue.

She shifted, twirling the beads of an onyx rosary in her non-dominant hand. Her skin seemed a shade paler than usual, and her body was noticeably tense.

“Come closer.” She beckoned, raising a clawed finger and gesturing you to come forward. She pushed the journal to the side and set down her fountain pen, waiting patiently.